


what we want most

by NotPersephone



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Pre-Series, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-13 01:26:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12972678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/pseuds/NotPersephone
Summary: Bedelia has a dream about Hannibal and it leaves her very distracted.





	what we want most

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Caissa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caissa/gifts).



Dreams don’t mean anything. They are merely random thoughts pulled from our brain; we construct the stories after we wake up. Bedelia feels as if she is quoting a bad paper she read. And to herself nonetheless. She takes a sip of her coffee; a bitter, slightly sour taste lingers on her tongue and she welcomes the sharpness. This is not how she usually takes it, but she decided to forego the sweetness of the milk for this morning; she needs to swiftly clear the haze of the night.

It was less than an hour ago, when Bedelia woke up abruptly with the images of the dream she had still imprinted on her mind. She sat up at once and blinked rapidly, trying to dispel the vision and her growing confusion. It was a _pleasant_ dream, to say the least, and although Bedelia does not remember the last time she experienced fantasies of that kind, it was not the object that left her unsettled. It was the subject of her dream, her patient. It had never happened to her before, in all her years of practise, not a single inappropriate thought about any of the patients. But then again, this isn’t just any patient.

She does not know what it signifies and tries to convince herself it is nothing. Another mouthful of coffee and she feels more like a herself again. As the sun rises outside her window, an orange stain spilling slowly over the horizon, Bedelia brushes away the scraps of her dream, locking them firmly in the farthest part of her mind, soon to be forgotten. With that final resolve, she finishes her coffee and sets to dress, putting on her armour of mauve silk and black tweed, ready to face the day, leaving the nonsense of the night behind her. At least, that is what she hoped for.

 

“Good afternoon, Doctor.”

Bedelia opens the door to find Hannibal Lecter, right on time and looking as immaculate as ever. A light blue tie and handkerchief compliment his dark blue suit. Their hue is strangely similar to the colour of Bedelia’s eyes, but it must be a coincidence. He beams at her brightly; Bedelia had never seen anyone to look so happy to see a therapist. As he continues to stare at her, his maroon eyes warm and curious, she is instantly taken back to her dream. She tries to shake the sensation away as they walk towards her office, but the thoughts she tried so hard to abandon return. And now they are harder to ignore with the subject of her visions walking tall right in front of her, broad shoulders perfectly filing his tailored jacket.

Their session starts as always, a well-practised routine they both have become accustomed to. Bedelia is grateful for the façade she can hopefully hide her discomposure behind. Hannibal talks about the events of his weeks and she is doing her best to listen, but her eyes keep wandering and her mind keeps replaying her dream.

Hannibal Lecter had always been so eager to keep her content, but in her dream, he did significantly _more_ than that.

His lips curve gently as he talks, appearing soft but firm, just like they felt in her dream, and Bedelia swallows, trying not to press her own lips too tightly together. As his tongue flicks over his lower lip, Bedelia is reminded of a specific part of her dream. She tries to prevent the images from pouring into her mind, but she cannot stop thinking about him tasting the most intimate parts of her, the gentle stubble on his cheeks brushing against her inner thighs as she wrapped her legs around his shoulders.

Her focus shifts to his hands, as he rests them idly on his lap, long fingers crossing and Bedelia imagines them stroking her and filling her to the brim. She uncrosses and crosses her legs again, shifting awkwardly.

Hannibal now talks about the success of his latest dinner party, roast venison with snails in particular was met with delight from his guests. The invitation was extended to her as well, as it always is, the fact that he now casually mentions. But Bedelia does not retort, missing her cue in their ongoing game, as her mind is too busy playing a game of its own. And she does not seem to be winning.

She can see him observing her as intensely as she watches him, his eyes following her every gesture, noting her distraction, but he does not comment. Yet. Bedelia feels guilty in a way; letting her emotional state interfere with their session. How very unprofessional, her patient deserves better, but she is not going to bring up the issue herself.

Their hour is up as they abandon their respectable corners and attempt to expand their edges. Hannibal chooses white. Bedelia pours them both a glass of Sauvignon Blanc and watches as he gently swirls the glass before taking a slow sip. He hums in appreciation.

Her own wine remains untouched and she moves towards the window, focusing her attention on the garden outside; the tree branches are hanging low, untrimmed and heavy with flowers; she makes a mental note to have a word with the gardener.

They remain silent, but Bedelia can feel him thinking, an almost physical sensation, like a tense wave rising and falling, as he tries to decide how to best approach the delicate subject. And soon enough, she hears him clear his throat.

“I hope I am not being too forward, but you appeared to be somehow distracted today, Doctor,” his words are careful, his voice soft, “I hope everything is all right.”

“Yes, I apologize,” her gaze remains fixed on the foliage, “I wasn’t fully myself today. Perhaps we should schedule an extra session.”

“There is nothing to apologize for,” he presses on in the same soothing tone, “I was merely worried about you.”

The confession hangs between them like heavy mist and Bedelia knows she cannot simply ignore it. Still, he is the _last_ person she wishes to discuss it with.

“I-,” she hesitates and takes a deep breath before continuing, “I had an unusual dream and left me more unsettled than I expected.” Just saying the words, makes her feel foolish, but Hannibal takes it in with all seriousness.

“I understand. Nightmares can cause a lot of distress,” he offers commiseration, no doubt based on his own experiences. Bedelia feels even more embarrassed now.

“It wasn’t a nightmare,” she clarifies with reluctance, “It was…quite the opposite.” She finally turns and dares to meet his eyes.

“Oh,” Hannibal’s eyes widen with instant understanding. She can see his curiosity is fully awakened, dark irises sparking erratically. “Well, that sounds a like a good thing to me,” he tries not to smile or appear too interested, with little success.

“I do not normally have _these kind of dreams_ ,” she explains, sounding defensive. Holding his gaze, she chastises herself for mentioning it in the first place. She should not have let her distraction get in the way of common sense.

“I see,” Hannibal takes another sip of his wine. Bedelia follows, suddenly in need of fortification; she empties half of her glass in one swift mouthful. The alcohol tingles pleasantly in the back of her throat.

“Did it involve someone you know?” he continues in the same languid tone, his fingers leisurely stroking the stem of the glass.

Hannibal has no reason to suspect that he is the subject of her dream, but Bedelia’s mind begins to race; if she hesitates or says nothing, he might know.

“Yes,” she settles for a one-word reply. When did she become so paranoid? Probably around the same time she started to fantasise about a patient. She finishes her wine.

Hannibal appears to be lost in contemplation.

“Every dream at its core is an attempt of a wish fulfilment,” he comments after a moment, “A symbol or a metaphor for our true underlying feelings.” Hannibal falls into his professional tone with ease; it makes Bedelia’s apprehension turn into annoyance at once. She can’t believe he is quoting Freud at her.

“I am familiar with the dream interpretation theory,” she interjects coldly, “It is rather rudimentary.”

“I agree,” Hannibal does not allow his keenness to be curbed, “I personally think dreams often represent what is currently important in a person’s life. What the person has been thinking mostly about as of late.”

He pauses, waiting for her reaction; she says nothing, but keeps holding his stare.

“It is nothing to be concerned about, Doctor,” he continues and smiles reassuringly.

“But perhaps something she should act upon,” he adds nonchalantly and focuses on his now empty glass.

Of course, Hannibal Lecter would say that, a man not knowing to deny himself anything. Or is there something _more_ behind the suggestion?

“We cannot allow ourselves to act upon _all our urges_ , Hannibal,” she looks at him sternly, trying to reclaim her usual authority.

“Of course not,” he replies with a smile, but Bedelia is not convinced by his acceptance of her statement, “But since, as you said, the dream was one of a kind, it must mean something to you.”

He falls silent, allowing for his words to sink in, but Bedelia does not respond; whatever her words are, it would feel like an admission of guilt.

“Can I refill your glass, Doctor?” Hannibal breaks the silence and Bedelia nods at once, relieved that the conversation is back on the familiar ground.

She extends her glass and Hannibal’s hand reaches to retrieve it. But instead of simply taking the bowl, his fingers brush over her hand, a slow, lingering touch, before finally removing the glass from her grip.

The sudden contact startles Bedelia, kindling an instant spark of electricity, raising the hair on the nape of her neck and advancing in a massive rush down her spine. She tries to control her reaction, but she knows her pupils are dilated; she can see that in his eyes as they widen as well.

Without a word, Hannibal turns and pours wine into their glasses before returning one to Bedelia. She is cautious not to touch him this time, which surely not escaped his notice. They savour their drinks in silence.

“Sometimes we don’t know how important something is, until we allow ourselves to explore it. The reality might exceed the expectations,” Hannibal speaks and she can see something akin to hope now shining in his eyes.

Bedelia doesn’t think he is talking about her dream anymore, maybe he never really was.

The sensation of his touch persists on her skin, warm and tempting, rousing something deep inside of her. Just like her dream. Something that won’t go back to rest. And Bedelia realises she does not want it to.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to kmo for the prompt! ♥ I enjoy moving back and forth between different stages of their relationship. It's all fun to explore. We all know that in the end Bedelia definitely made her dream a reality. And it was better than she imagined.


End file.
